Two Years
by NightFuryofGallifrey
Summary: It's been two years. Two years since the fall, and it still haunts him. How can he move on? One-shot. No slash.
1. John

**A/N:** A little one-shot I just wrote up in honor of SHERLOCK COMING BACK TODAY. *stifles scream and tries to behave like reasonable person* *fails*

**Disclaimer**: I don't own Sherlock. But that's okay. Because HE'S COMING BAAAACK.

* * *

_ Two years._

John stares at the black headstone, the white words still standing out clearly. _Sherlock Holmes._

He'd had another nightmare last night. The same one. He was on the rooftop. He said he was a fake. _Goodbye, John._

And then he jumped.

That part was always over so quickly, in the dream. He said goodbye, and then he was falling.

The falling took forever.

And then he was on the pavement.

Blood stained the ground. Blood matted his hair. Blood pooled around his head. His pulse was nonexistent.

And then he was gone.

And John was lying awake in bed, shaking and sweating, a cry of Sherlock! on his lips but left unsaid.

_ Two years._

Mrs. Hudson must have come by the grave earlier, because bright flowers sat in front of the headstone, the vibrant oranges and yellows contrasting with the black.

The black was so dark. The black reminded him of Sherlock's coat. The breeze that moves the flowers reminds him of the way Sherlock's coat billowed behind him as he was falling.

_Why?_

The question John had asked ever since Sherlock had called him on the roof. The question John had continued to ask for two years. The question he had asked every time he saw a newspaper headline or internet story declaring the consulting detective's fraudery.

The question still kept him up at night.

He felt her come up behind him. Her hand slipped into his and gave his a squeeze. He squeezed back, and she started to pull away, but he grasped it tighter, clinging to the one sure thing in his life. She tightened her grip, and leaned into him, but she didn't speak. She always seemed to know what to say, and when not to say anything at all.

Mary was his anchor. Sometimes he felt she was the only thing keeping him from floating away, from turning into a ghost like the one who haunted his dreams.

He turned away from the gravestone and looked at her. She looked up at him, her eyes telling him she understood.

"Coffee?" He asked softly.

She nodded.

They turned away in tandem, still holding hands. As John walked away from the cemetary, he almost felt as if a load fell off his shoulders. It had been two years.

Perhaps it was time to move on.


	2. Sherlock

**A/N: EDIT: Ack! Sorry! Apparently the second chapter was the same as the first chapter. My internet was wonky when I tried to post this, so something got screwed up in the publishing process. Sorry! Fixed now!**

**A/N:** Waiting to be able to watch the new episode, so I decided to write this. Wasn't planning on writing a second part of this, but I'm bored. XD So. This is shorter than John's, and I didn't get all the parallels in that I had wanted, but whatevs.

**Disclaimer:** Still don't own Sherlock. If I did, I would have already seen the Empty Hearse.

* * *

_ Two years._

Sherlock stares at the black door, the gold numbers still standing out clearly. _221B._

He felt a strange feeling come over himself. The plane ride back to London was boring, as he had predicted. The entire ride, he mulled over how he was going to announce himself back into everyone's lives. He hadn't thought it would be difficult, but then…

_Baker street? He isn't there anymore. He's got on with his life._

He'd spoken with Mycroft, who had told him about John.

John hadn't been hard to track down. He wasn't hiding. He had a place over on the other side of the city. But he wasn't there right now. Sherlock had checked.

So now he stood in front of the black door, the place he had once called home.

He gave a short, quick nod, then strode across the street to his door.

_Two years._

Mrs. Hudson was inside, in her flat. Washing dishes. He could hear her as he pushed the door open and stepped inside.

A smile tugged at the corner of his lips.

It had been two years.

It was good to be home.


End file.
